


of gods & monsters

by Dexterous_Sinistrous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Trojan War Setting (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Alternate Universe - War, Demigod Stiles Stilinski, Implied Mpreg, King of Sparta Derek Hale, M/M, Odysseus Peter Hale, Oracles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23181193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dexterous_Sinistrous/pseuds/Dexterous_Sinistrous
Summary: “I’m not the best at conversation. I’ve been told I have no finesse for it.”Stiles took a step closer to Derek, pushing the billowing silk out of the way. “And what would you say if you looked at me now?”Derek looked up, startled for a moment when he realized he was now looking at Stiles’ unveiled face. He was silent for a beat, taking in Stiles’ features for the first time, convinced he would never see such beauty unveiled for him alone.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 51
Kudos: 1075





	of gods & monsters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NegativeNorth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NegativeNorth/gifts).



> NegativeNorth won christineficrecs give away, and I feel awful that it took so long. Here is a longer fic than expected, so I hope that makes up for how long it took me.
> 
> I explored more of the oracle I originally mentioned my red string of fate fic. I hope you like this!!!

_ I am in doubt whether to pronounce you man or god… But I think rather you are a god, son of the fury. _

_ I have counted the grains of sand on the beach, and measured the sea. I understand your muted speech and voiceless cries. The smell has burned my senses with the heat of lightning, and the promise of a haven. _

_ Now our statues stand, pouring sweat and shivering with dread at what has been done. They have watched your evil. The black blood drips from the highest rooftops to bathe the sand the wolf’s paws will traverse. _

_ Get out, get out of my sanctum and drown your spirits in woe for what is to come. _

_ Await not in quiet for the coming of horses, the marching feet, the armed ships upon the land. Slip away and turn your back for a chance to live. _

_ Son of Troy, you will be met in battle. O foolish Troy, you will be the death of many a woman's son between the seedtime and the harvest of the grain. _

_ The wolf of Sparta … he comes for what is his—his wounded heart howls with mournful anger. _

_ The strength of bulls or lions cannot stop him. No, he will not leave, not until he tears the city and our throne limb from limb. _

_ Troy will burn … to never rise from the ashes. _

~*~

“A sheik from the far sands had these shipped to my father,” Stiles explained as he looked up at the various silks hanging on display in the room. A gracious spread of colors and lengths draped across the beams. He stared up at the ceiling, his tongue numb with the bitter regret that always came with every suitor’s response to his question. “What would you offer as a rival?”

Derek was quiet for a moment as he turned about the room. He had never seen so many fine silks gathered in one space. He knew a boast when he saw one. He turned his gaze towards Stiles, catching a glimpse of the young prince’s veil through one of the draped silks. “I have nothing to offer you that would rival this,” he honestly stated.

Stiles’ shoulders grew rigid, his head downturned before turning to look at Derek. “My father said you didn’t bring a gift,” he cautiously stated. “So you brought nothing with you to offer for my hand.”

Derek shook his head. “I thought it was pointless to offer you something when I didn’t have a chance to know you,” he explained.

There were plenty of things Derek could have offered Stiles. But nothing seemed to hold any meaning, not when all he had heard about was the prince’s rumored beauty.

Stiles pulled one of the silks back, getting a better look at Derek. “You’re different than the others.”

Derek softly snorted in response. “That’s not saying much,” he reasoned. “I’ve had to sit in the same dining hall as the others, and they left the standard rather low.”

Stiles couldn’t help the light laugh he breathed out. “You’re not going to speak to no end about how blessed I’d be to have you for my husband?”

Derek looked down at his hands, feeling out of place with how on the spot he was. He wanted to be more for Stiles than another pestering meeting. “I’m not the best at conversation. I’ve been told I have no finesse for it.”

Stiles took a step closer to Derek, pushing the billowing silk out of the way. “And what would you say if you looked at me now?”

Derek looked up, startled for a moment when he realized he was now looking at Stiles’ unveiled face. He was silent for a beat, taking in Stiles’ features for the first time, convinced he would never see such beauty unveiled for him alone.

Stiles’ eyes were an ambered brown, a golden shine reflected in the room’s candlelight. His skin was a paler shade than most on the coastal capital. His hair an auburn shade that reflected the splattering of moles across his cheeks and neck, the faintest sign of beauty marks disappearing beneath the shoulders of his robes. The dusting of a pink blush spread across Stiles’ cheeks as Derek’s gaze lingered on him.

Derek took a moment to himself before replying, “I would be lying to you if I said you weren’t beautiful. But it wouldn’t change the fact that we still don’t know each other.”

Stiles drew in a steady breath, hands twisting the veil as he fidgeted some. “And that matters to you?”

Derek nodded. “And I think it matters to you, too.”

~*~

John wasn’t surprised when he caught Stiles lingering in the shadows, outside the feasting hall. He wore an amused smile as he crossed his arms over his chest when Stiles offered an innocent shrug.

“I’m outside the hall,” Stiles reasoned.

“Without your veil,” John replied.

Stiles frowned at his father. “I wanted to know how they acted when I wasn’t around. Not that it would change most of their attitudes.” He wanted to know how Derek acted, still terrified that it had been an act—that his heart was falling for nothing but a perfected lie. He had enjoyed his conversations with Derek once he took his veil off, finding a normalcy in their dialogue. He was overly aware of Derek’s attempts to make him comfortable with their physical proximity, never attempting to touch Stiles just because he revealed himself.

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know this is difficult—”

“But necessary,” Stiles echoed in reason. “I know you didn’t do this with a light heart.”

John frowned as he looked at his son. “Well, whatever you said to the young son of Sparta seemed to prompt him to change his mind about a gift.”

Stiles looked surprised by his father’s words. He took a step closer to John, trying to see around the older man and the curtains for a glimpse of Derek. “What did he offer you?”

John shook his head. “He offered  _ you _ a gift, which was a pleasant change.”

Stiles looked expectantly at his father, making almost grabby hands when his father held his hand out. He took the gift, looking down lovingly as he inspected the small shape. He turned the item in his hands, recognizing it as a carving of a wolf.

The wood was smoothed out, expertly crafted with dedication. The wolf was poised, sitting with its head arched as if it was howling.

"His uncle said he has a talent for carving wood into various shapes," John commented.

“I told him about the menagerie,” Stiles explained to his father. “And that I didn’t have the heart to keep the animals caged.”

John remembered the day the animals escaped. He had been worried Stiles had been hurt by one of the animals, only to realize that his son had allowed the exquisite creatures to escape their confines. “You look as if you like this gift,” he noted.

John had witnessed the divine fury Stiles had inherited from his mother. There was a beautiful twist to the almost curse Stiles suffered in bouts. He had never been the object of such fury before, but had seen the anger Stiles spat towards the offenders. He knew when his son showed another favor, which was rarer than the odd appearance of his anger.

Stiles looked up at John. He offered a small smile before looking down at that wolf. “He listened to me. No one has ever listened to me.”

“Oh,” John replied. He watched Stiles for a moment before adding, “You like the gifter, then.”

Stiles looked surprised by John’s words before hesitantly nodding in acceptance.

“Is this your choice then?” John asked, knowing that the deadline was growing near.

Stiles nodded once again, “I dare say it is.”

“I would not willingly part with you to anyone you do not choose,” John explained to Stiles. “You know that.”

Stiles smiled at his father. “I choose him.”

~*~

When the day came for John to choose a suitor for his son, his heart swayed him against the obvious nature of such a rigid affair. Perhaps it was a weakness of heart—his love for his son’s happiness—that swayed his hand in allowing Stiles to choose his husband.

The scribes would write that Stiles chose the youngest and most handsome of the suitors for his own selfish reasons. None saw the way the son of Sparta had respected Stiles’ space, never trying to steal an unwelcomed glance at the fabled beauty that had convened the known world’s kings and princes. None heard the way the wolf of Sparta had stumbled through his words when first trying to gage Stiles’ interests.

In the end, though, Stiles had chosen the wolf—the strongest and most loyal of the group. He chose a young warrior with the scars of a soldier, but the heart of a farm boy—whose eyes followed Stiles with adoration.

The wolf of Sparta was no easily dispatched opponent on the battlefield, and the others respected that namesake, relenting to accept Stiles' choice.

It was obvious to Stiles, though: he chose his chance for love.

The gods blessed their wedding day. The sun shone brightly, the ceremony overseen by more than one deity. Claudia gave her blessing when she saw how happy of a smile Stiles had when looking at Derek. She wished them health and prosperity, taking a moment alone with Stiles to have a quiet discussion of the years to come.

~*~

Years passed in simple harmony.

They had a daughter, whose hair was the same shade and unruliness as Derek's and eyes that burned as brightly as Stiles' own. She grew up knowing nothing but love, seeing the devotion her parents had for each other.

Her name was Hermione, after the messenger god for hope she would find her way even in the darkest of times.

When Derek would leave for war, Stiles would pray. He'd pray to his mother and grandfather, begging for Derek to be returned to him, healthy and swiftly. Hermione would join him when she finally understood what he was asking for.

Derek always came back with the wind siding his sails, rushing him back home. There were times when Derek would return with wounds and new scars, Stiles always fussing with a frightened scowl on his lips.

Life flourished and love blossomed, but so did the jealousy in many hearts.

One prince believed he had been cheated by the fates for not allowing him a place among the suitors attempting to win Stiles’ heart.

~*~

War. A war would be fought for such a treachery—even a Prince of Troy would not be spared.

Stiles had fought, kicking and punching as he struggled with his captors. He bit the shoulder of the man who tried to carry him from the ship. He spit in the prince of Troy’s face, even after the back of the man’s hand smacked across his cheek in threatening consequence. He cursed him with the fire in his soul, praying his mother would wreak havoc on the kingdom of Troy for their prince’s cruelty.

Treachery—the Prince of Troy waited for Derek to be gone, knowing Stiles would do anything for Hermione. Anything.

Stiles’ robes were torn and dirtied from his retaliation. His hair was wild, his eyes red rimmed with angry tears he had shed. He had demanded he be freed when the prince brought him to the palace, startled with unsettling surprise when the King and Queen disapproved of their son’s actions but resolved to keep Stiles with them.

“Your husband will believe you fled willingly,” the Queen reasoned with Stiles. “He’ll kill you for it, his anger greater than your godly beauty.”

Stiles glowered at the woman. “My husband will kill you,” he lowly threatened. He looked at all of them. “He will tear your kingdom apart, and leave your blood for the wolves.” He jerked away from the prince when the man attempted to touch him. “Touch me, and I’ll eat you alive!” A darkness seeped into the room, a reaction to Stiles' anger.

“Lock him in the highest room,” the King commanded the guards. “He’ll change his mind when his husband comes for his head.”

~*~

Stiles curled up in the bed, his arms cradling himself as he tried to settle the nerves riling up his stomach in terror. He cried hot tears and short sobs as he thought of Hermione, praying his mother kept her safe from the prince’s guards. He had been so terrified when he sent her running for the beaches, hoping she would escape from the chaos and wait for Derek’s return.

Stiles pressed his hands against his stomach, closing his eyes as he imagined they were Derek’s hands from the nights before. He remembered whispering the words to his husband, the joy they had shared that night—after so many nights of Stiles’ prayers to the mother goddess to grant them another child.

The news had been overshadowed by the announcement of Queen Talia’s passing. Derek was conflicted, reluctantly agreeing to make the pilgrimage to his mother’s tomb without Stiles or their daughter by his side. With Stiles' reassurance that all would be well, he promised to be swift and return the moment his mourning ended.

The Trojan prince had turned on Sparta’s hospitality, deciding to take what he wanted. And the man’s wants and desires had fallen on Stiles—the beauty so many had been denied when love was chosen.

Stiles now prayed for the Trojans to never know the life he carried within him. He feared they would force his marriage to the prince.

That they would steal his baby away if they knew.

~*~

It took weeks for the ships to arrive.

Days passed with Stiles attacking anyone who dared try to touch him, whether it was a helping hand or not. He threw more than one amphora at the royal family members who dared to try and reason with him. He tore the fine robes apart that the slaves brought for him to wear.

Stiles’ hope was rekindled when he overheard some of the slaves talking one day.

“The Greeks have come.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them.”

Stiles felt his heart lighten—they had come for him.

~*~

Stiles had been dragged from his prison, reluctant to go with them despite his hopes they were bringing him to Derek as an offer for a truce. He had been proven right that Derek would come for him, and now the Trojans truly must have regretted keeping him against his will.

Stiles was disappointed when they brought him into the temple found at the heart of the city. There were priests, and a figure shrouded in silks and fine linens hiding her visage from everyone. He recognized her by the stories alone—an oracle.

Oracles were rarer in recent times, most of them being driven mad or killed by kings and queens who believed themselves better than the prophecies foretold. It never ended well for a royal who harmed an oracle.

A deathly gurgle came from the oracle as her head fell back before snapping forward to look at Stiles.  _ “I am in doubt whether to pronounce you man or god…” _ She tilted her head to the side as she observed Stiles. “ _ But I think rather you are a god, son of the fury.” _

Stiles held his breath, wondering what fate the oracle would predict for him. Regardless, Derek would fight for him, and he feared that most of all should the oracle prophesize differently.

“ _ I have counted the grains of sand on the beach, and measured the sea. I understand your muted speech and voiceless cries for answers. _ ” Her hands moved to pull at the veil covering her face, long fingernails catching and scratching at the material as she pulled and thrashed against the confine. She was bared to look at Stiles, her eyes clouded with a haze though she seemed to look right through Stiles.

The woman was mature, well beyond her maidenhood. Her hair held unruly curls that were strewed about thanks to the chaos of the veil. Her skin was a fair tone, one that marked just how secluded and hidden away she was from the outside. Her nose was long and slender, ever so slightly crooked if Stiles stared long enough; her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared back at Stiles.

The oracle’s voice softened in tone as she addressed Stiles directly. “ _ The smell has burned my senses with the heat of lightning, and the promise of a haven for you shattered as you were snatched away. Oh, son of the fury. _ ” She made a soft clicking sound with her tongue. “ _ Such fury … such… _ ” Her voice left her as she turned her gaze upwards, looking at the small opening in the temple’s ceiling. She stared at the sun before reaching her arms up, hands outstretched as she tried to pull the answers down from the heavens themselves.

“We’ve come, oracle, to know of our kingdom’s fate,” the King addressed the woman. “The Greeks are at our shores, to steal away such a divine gift.”

The oracle’s head fell backwards once more, sucking in a sharp breath as her eyes rolled back into her head.

“ _ Now our statues stand, pouring sweat and shivering with dread at what has been done. They have watched your evil. The black blood drips from the highest rooftops to bathe the sand the wolf’s paws will traverse. _ ” Her body suffered an intense convulsion as she lurched forward, one of the priests catching her in an attempt to steady the unpredictable movements.

“ _ You insult me, King, _ ” the oracle spoke in a deep voice, as if another used her as a mouthpiece. “ _ Get out, get out of my sanctum and drown your spirits in woe for what is to come.” _

“We seek to understand what is to come,” the King pressed. “To know when, and how to keep this gift for our city.”

The oracle began to rant, her words fast and uncontrolled as she spoke of what she foresaw.

_ “Await not in quiet for the coming of horses, the marching feet, the armed ships upon the land. Slip away and turn your back for a chance to live. _

_ O foolish Troy, you will be the death of many a woman's son between the seedtime and the harvest of the grain. _

_ And you, Son of Troy, you will be met in battle. The wolf will sink his teeth into you.” _

“The wolf?” The Queen questioned, her voice hopeful for an answer of who to avoid.

_ “The wolf of Sparta … he comes for what is his—his wounded heart howls with mournful anger." _

Stiles held his breath, knowing Derek wouldn't stop for anyone—he'd get to him, and bring him home.

"One man can be stopped," the King reasoned.

The Oracle shook her head back and forth. " _ The strength of bulls or lions cannot stop him. No, he will not leave, not until he tears the city and our throne limb from limb. _

_ Troy will burn … to never rise from the ashes. _

_ And the wolf will drink our blood dry, and sire a new generation.” _

Stiles felt the tears streaming down his face, a smile pulling at his lips.

Derek— _ his _ wolf of Sparta, had come.

~*~

Derek glowered as they approached the palace. He paused when Peter grabbed his arm. His brows furrowed when his uncle did not speak.

“We have a chance to negotiate,” Peter began to explain.

“Negotiate what?” Derek demanded, his anger flaring once more.

“Your husband’s return, and their apology,” Peter replied.

“Apology?” Derek spat in disgust. “I want that prince’s head!”

“And that will not get us anywhere,” Peter answered.

“The Trojan bastard came to our house under the guise of being our guest,” Derek angrily began, as if this angered rant had marinated in his brain the entire voyage, only to erupt now. “While in mourning for my mother, the man attacked my husband, forcibly taking him from our home. He tried to kill my daughter!”

Derek had known something was wrong once he stepped off the ship, even before Hermione ran down the palace steps, bawling tears as she rushed to him.

Hermione could barely speak the words, her sobs interrupting her recount of events. Her hair was matted, her robes dirtied. But she had no scrapes or bruises thanks to Claudia's gentle hand. She had hid for so long on the beaches before her grandmother found and delivered her to the grotto for safe keeping.

Claudia had blessed their ships when Derek told her what had happened. Their voyage was swift and easy, thanks to the goddess's watchful eye.

“I understand you are furious with them,” Peter began. “But we need to avoid senseless bloodshed.”

“It wasn’t your husband stolen—your child frightened,” Derek angrily stated.

“Stiles and Hermione are still my family, Derek,” Peter countered. “I merely wish to get Stiles back without incident.”

Derek ground his teeth, his anger refusing to simmer. He allowed Peter to part from him before finally relenting. “He’s with child,” he forcefully uttered.

Peter stopped, his foot on the first step leading up to the palace. He looked back at Derek, realization on his face.

“If the King and Queen are going to keep him for their son, they won’t care that I’m still alive. But ...” Derek’s face pinched for the first time, revealing the fear he had for Stiles and their child. "But he can't be with child if he marries the son."

Peter frowned. “We’ll have to act fast then.”

~*~

“You have quite an imagery for words, King of Ithaca,” the Queen stated before Peter could even finish his terms. “But we have no Stiles of Sparta here, only a Stiles of Troy.”

Peter grabbed Derek’s arm when his nephew began to surge forward, aware of the way the palace guards grabbed for their swords in reaction. He held Derek back. “If we are mistaken, and you only have this Stiles of Troy, then I wish to see him.”

Derek looked at Peter, confused for a moment as to what Peter was playing at.

“We have seen the fabled beauty of Stiles of Sparta, and would know if this Stiles of Troy holds any resemblance, and we can sort through this misunderstanding,” Peter stated. “I’m sure my nephew would know his husband when he sees him.”

Derek relaxed some, turning to look at the Trojan King and Queen. His fears settled when he realized they were uneasy with Peter’s proposal.

“Are you afraid to show us your Stiles of Troy?” Peter pressed when his words were left unacknowledged. “I assure you, sons of Hale do not steal others’ spouses while being guests in another’s home. That would be abhorrent, especially to the gods.”

The words were enough to prompt a sharp reaction, baiting the King and Queen to meet Peter’s taunt.

“Bring Stiles,” the King announced to the guards.

Derek’s breathing was easier after that.

~*~

Stiles’ feet startled into a fast paced sprint the moment he saw Derek. He released a frustrated yell when the prince grabbed him to halt his attempts to get to Derek.

Derek had surged forward when he saw Stiles moving towards him. He was barred from taking more than five steps when the guards locked their spears together, his chest pressed against the weapons.

Stiles struggled to get away from the prince, turning to punch him in retaliation. He just missed, but was successful in getting the prince to release him. He stumbled and swayed, managing to get close to the guards barring Derek. He reached his hand out, grabbing for Derek.

Derek reached his hand out, taking Stiles' hand in his own.

Stiles struggled when the prince grabbed him again, his hand being pulled out of Derek's.

"I demand you let him go!" Derek furiously snapped at the Trojan royals. He turned his glare on the King and Queen. "That is my husband, and I demand you release him. Now."

"He's delirious," the Queen stated. "Stiles is a child of Troy now, married before the gods to our son."

"No! That's a lie," Stiles furiously spoke. He looked at Derek, relieved to see that his husband knew the truth.

"War has come to your gates," Peter stated as he took control of the situation. "Return Stiles to where he wishes to be—reunited with his true husband. And we will leave your shores untouched." He paused, trying to evaluate the King and Queen. "If you don't, a war will plague your kingdom as you hide behind your walls."

"As said, there is nothing to ask forgiveness for," the King stated with finality.

Stiles struggled, to no avail. He didn't care if he was seen as a wild creature, he was determined to get to Derek. He had spent so many nights imagining his husband's arms wrapped around him, and now they were only separated by a few quick paces.

"Then I demand this be decided with blood,” Derek interrupted before another could speak.

Stiles’ struggles ceased as he looked at Derek.

“I demand a trial of combat,” Derek stated. He turned to look at the prince. “If you truly are destined to have Stiles as your husband, meet me on the battlefield.”

The pain constricting Stiles’ chest began to loosen, as if Derek’s words lulled all anger away. He knew Derek would win—the wolf of Sparta did not lose.

~*~

"Anything to say before I widow you?"

Stiles turned his unchanging gaze on the Trojan prince. He spoke soft enough that he knew the prince had to strain to listen, intent on unsettling the man with his words. "Derek once caved a man’s skull in with a goblet because he touched me." He watched as that knowledge was being processed before adding, "what do you think he'll do to you?"

It wasn't a lie. The man had grabbed Stiles when he thought no one was around, Stiles having left Derek's side at the party to check on Hermione. He forced his hands beneath Stiles' robes and clamped a hand over the demigod's mouth to silence his scream for help.

Derek had always been connected to Stiles since the day Claudia blessed their marriage. He found Stiles before the man could even get his hands completely beneath Stiles' robes.

The metal goblet was the first thing within reach for Derek.

Though Stiles hadn't lied about the anger and fury in Derek's actions. The man died in the middle of the night from his wounds, much to Stiles’ relief that he’d never have to see the man again.

They had been married for little over a year, both realizing that some still saw Stiles as an object to be had. It unsettled Stiles to the point of recoiling from most parties.

Derek didn’t trust anyone again to be alone with Stiles, realizing that some were too dangerous to trust in controlling their nefarious desires.

Stiles turned to look at Derek now, watching as his husband lifted the shield from the chariot. He felt a swell of pride as he watched Derek, fully armored with ancestral shield and spear, march towards them with purpose. He knew he’d be heading home before the sun set today.

~*~

"I know you don't need a combat lesson," Peter started as he moved to stand beside Derek. He paused, looking at where Derek was staring, unsurprised when he saw that Stiles held his nephew's attention. "Keep a calm head," he cautioned.

"As calm as any man whose spouse was kidnapped?" Derek countered, offering his shield to Peter in favor of taking his helmet from Boyd. He changed his mind in how he wanted to deal with the prince.

Peter looked between shield and helmet. "You're going to use the shield, correct?" He crossly asked for clarification.

Derek securely settled his helmet into place. "I won't need it," he answered.

"I know he's a bastard and you want to make a point, I get that, but he is still a skilled fighter regardless of being a pampered prince," Peter hurriedly uttered as he walked beside Derek's advancing form.

Derek stopped walking, turning and looking at Peter when his uncle stumbled to a stop beside him. "I fight my battles, I don't practice with guards too scared to hit me."

Peter released an exasperated sigh, knowing Derek would not negotiate. "Just, don't take your eyes off him."

Derek looked back at the prince, his gaze flickering over to Stiles. He watched as the guards escorted Stiles back behind the walls, despite Stiles' struggle. "I won't."

~*~

Stiles felt almost nothing when he heard the Queen scream just as Derek embedded the broken spear tip through the prince's shoulder.

Derek paced in front of the prince as he listened to the younger man's kneeling form gasp to catch his breath. He looked at the King and Queen hiding safely high up in the balcony, knowing they waited for him to make the next move.

"Part of me thinks I should let you live," Derek started as he walked around to stand in front of the prince. "For the few hours you could survive that wound," he added as an afterthought. He moved to crouch in front of the prince. He turned his head to the side, pulling his helmet off to get an easier look. He dropped his helmet into the sand to be forgotten for the moment. "The thing is," he sighed, looking to Stiles as he drew in a breath. “You made a mistake.”

Stiles was watching Derek, releasing a caught breath of relief. His mouth narrowed into a thin line, his visage darkening a bit as he waited.

“You took a look at Stiles, and you saw an object,” Derek explained. “You were a conceited fool.” He stood, taking a step away from the prince as he turned expectantly towards the high walls of Troy.

Stiles turned to look at the King and Queen. He shook his head, turning to head down the stairs when neither royalty made a move to address him. He was startled to cease his attempt to leave when the soldiers blocked his path. He looked at the King and Queen. “You’ve lost,” he clearly stated. “I will be going back to my husband. And leave you to your grief.” He turned to push by the soldiers, reacting quickly as he descended the stairs. He took some of the steps two at a time, hurrying to get out of the Trojan’s hold. He rushed past the soldiers, slipping through the doors before they were completely open.

Derek stood when he felt the familiar tug pull on his senses—a warmth spreading through his gut, knowing that Stiles was closeby.

Stiles’ ran as fast as he could, his sandals kicking up sand. He hurried towards Derek, arms reaching out towards his husband.

Derek turned in time to catch Stiles practically jumping into his arms. He wrapped his arms around Stiles’ waist, holding him close as he buried his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck.

“You came,” Stiles breathlessly uttered into the shoulder of Derek’s armor. “The oracle said you would— I knew you would.” He turned to press a kiss to Derek’s lips, hands cradling Derek’s jaw.

“I shouldn’t have left you,” Derek answered, his hand reaching up to run fingers through Stiles’ hair. His knuckles gently brushed the curve of Stiles’ cheek in adoration as he pulled away from their kiss in order to get a better look at Stiles.

Stiles’ gaze dropped to look at the Trojan prince. He pressed into Derek’s hold, resting against his chest as he watched the injured man slowly expire. “You brought an army for me,” he replied.

A sudden vision of something terrible gripped Stiles.

A sharpened blade—feathers flying through the wind, a hiss loudly cutting through the silence.

Stiles shoved Derek backwards, just as the arrow nearly pierced through his back.

The arrow passed over Derek’s shoulder, just missing his armor before embedding itself just above Stiles’ collarbone.

Stiles stumbled backwards, collapsing to the ground from the shock of pain cutting through him.

The roar of outrage from the soldiers was deafening.

Stiles could see the King and Queen watching, an archer with a poised bow standing beside them. He could hear Derek’s voice shouting something at them, his ears ringing. He watched as Derek moved with the swiftness of a god, turning and swinging his sword at the Trojan prince.

Stiles shook some as he watched the prince’s head fall to the bloodied sand. He heard the muffled scream of the Queen echoing once more, just as arrows shot overhead—a precautionary aid to cover him and Derek.

Derek quickly knelt beside Stiles, gently lifting him up from the sand in order to gage his health.

Stiles gasped in pain as he clutched at Derek’s armor for purchase. He grabbed Derek’s arm when his husband grabbed for the shaft of the arrow. He gritted his teeth in pain, looking up at Derek with furrowed brows. “Kill them,” he softly stated.

Derek’s anger swelled as he picked Stiles up in his arms, holding him in a firm grasp to keep from jostling the arrow embedded in his shoulder. He held Stiles against his chest as he walked back to his chariot, passing his uncle on the way.

Peter helped Derek get Stiles into the chariot with greater ease before he turned to the men. “Rally!” He commanded, knowing that battle was inevitable now.

“Tear them apart!” Derek thunderously yelled.

Stiles closed his eyes, allowing himself to be lulled against Derek’s chest as the chariot took off. He listened to the sounds of the battle beginning.

~*~

Stiles awoke exhausted, turning his groggy vision towards the light streaming into the room. He could tell from the swaying that they were at sea, traveling far from those hellish shores. He stared at the figure sitting on the edge of his bed, blinking some to get a better look. He faintly smiled when he realized the form was none other than Derek. He reached a hand out to touch Derek’s back. His fingertips brushed the thin linen of Derek’s shirt.

Derek startled into motion when he felt a hand touch his back, a familiar palm caressing the muscles along his spine. He twisted to look at Stiles, setting down the block of half carved wood and knife onto the table. He leaned over Stiles, hands touching Stiles with gentle care—one hand reached to touch Stiles’ face, the other caressing Stiles’ hip.

Stiles reached a hand up to hold onto Derek’s bicep, his other hand touching Derek’s chest in a tender manner. “Your armor’s gone,” he noted with a husky voice, playing with the opened hem of Derek’s shirt hanging loosely from his chest. His fingertips caressing various shapes against Derek’s skin, tracing through Derek’s chest hair.

“Would be pointless wearing it now,” Derek replied, subconsciously leaning even closer to Stiles, practically draping himself over Stiles’ torso. He leaned down to place a kiss to Stiles’ forehead.

“Is Hermione safe?” Stiles suddenly asked in concern.

“Your mother kept her safe,” Derek offered.

Stiles hummed, closing his eyes. “That’s good—I can’t wait to see her again.” He winced some as he attempted to settle into the bed more. “My shoulder still hurts,” he uttered, turning his head to look at where the pain radiated from.

“Your mother set medicine,” Derek offered, pulling Stiles’ shirt to the side in order to reveal his wound. “You’re healing faster than a human.”

Stiles gently padded his hand against Derek’s chest in appreciation. “Thanks to you getting me back in one piece.”

Derek partially frowned. “I should have been faster.”

Stiles playfully smacked his palm against Derek’s shoulder. “Stop blaming yourself.”

Derek looked at Stiles.

“Did you … what happened?” Stiles inquired, looking up at Derek.

Derek looked away from Stiles, some shame in his features. “The King gave word for the archer to kill me when he realized his son had been bested,” he offered. “When the arrow hit you, I thought you … I thought they killed you.”

Stiles frowned some, reaching a hand up to touch Derek’s cheek. “I never meant for you to have this life,” he uttered. “So much bloodshed, and death, because of me.”

“Because of them,” Derek corrected Stiles. “But for you … I’d wade through the River Styx for you—I’d kill a thousand souls if it would keep you and Hermione safe.”

Stiles softly smiled up at Derek. “I love you,” he softly stated. “I knew you’d come for me.” He took Derek’s hand in his own, lowering Derek’s palm to his slightly swollen stomach hidden beneath the blankets. “For us.” He pulled Derek down into a kiss.


End file.
